Sick
by HiImJamie42
Summary: Paul's sick and John does what he figures is the best for him. Slash!  Rated T for language and suggestive themes.  Review please!


_Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything in this story, all happenings are a figment of my imagination._

I hate being sick. Everything feels like it's going too slow and your body temperature goes haywire and your eyes burn and your nose is all stuffed up and your joints ache and your stomach feels weird and your ears are plugged and your head hurts.

I couldn't take much more of this shit.

I leaned over the white toilet bowl, retching for the millionth time now. When I finished I leaned back, resting the lower portion of my spine against the hard bathtub behind me and feeling the thin plastic curtain float along the crest of my hair. I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth, then grabbed a wet towel and let it hang over my face.

I was hot. So fucking hot.

I brought my head forward, letting the white towel fall to the ground and set my cheek on the hard porcelain lid of the toilet. That was much better, nice and cold. I didn't really mind that the stiff lid squished my cheek and hurt my neck; I was too warm to care. I closed my eyes for a while, seeing if sleep would be so generous and come to me.

Unfortunately, something else decided to show.

"What're ya doing on the floor?"

I opened my right eye, seeing what appeared to be a giant dog with John's voice and a brown hat.

I blinked a few times, clearing whatever gunk was in my eye. The cloud vanished from my sight, revealing John, still in pajama pants and a black t-shirt, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette sticking out of his mouth.

"Not that I mind ya bein' on your knees." He smirked as he took a long, exaggerated drag.

I glared at him, swallowing against my puffy, scorching throat. I'd made it a point that we shouldn't talk about, well, what he was talking about, but knowing John, he'd always make sly little remarks about it, in public and private. He walked forward and sat beside me, lowering his thick-rimmed glasses to look at me.

"What's wrong Paulie?" He asked softly as he set his hand on my forehead.

"Whatssit look like, ya tosser?" I grumbled, reaching up to grab his hand and pull it down to the floor with mine. "'m barfin' my brains out, that's what."

The side of John's mouth turned up in his own little smile as he wiped some saliva from my lower lip. "Aw, poor Paulie's sick is 'e? And 'e wants ol' Johnny to make it all better does 'e?" He mocked, roughly rubbing circles in my back, churning my stomach more than calming it.

My eyes rolled back in my head a little, "John," I warned, my throat seeming like it had expanded.

So like a true gentleman, he stopped momentarily, lifted the lovely, cold toilet lid, and continued to crudely massage my back.

I tried to say John's name, but all that came out was a dry heave.

John's hand flew back from my spine, though he tried to smooth out the motion to make it seem natural.

I straightened my back. "False alarm." I croaked, trying to stifle my giggles as I looked at John's face.

Once he figured out I hadn't actually thrown up, he punched my arm, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to let me know he didn't appreciate what I did.

He pressed the cig to his lips and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke in my face when he was done. It made my eyes water, and my stomach jumped a little.

"Don't ever do that again." John huffed. I laughed lightly, figuring my vomit-fest had nearly ended.

"S'not like I can 'elp it, 'm sick ya know." I mumbled, suddenly drained from laughing. I lowered the lid once again, letting my sweaty face attach itself to the comforting cold. John rubbed the cigarette out on the tile floor, throwing it in the trash bin.

He turned so his whole body was facing mine, fixing his elbow on the toilet above my head and lacing his fingers in my hair.

He smiled at me, his face serene and spirited, "I luv you." He murmured, tangling my hair around his fingers.

I hummed in response, closing my eyes and relaxing into John's uneven touch.

For the longest time we just sat there, enjoying each other's company, whispering and kissing occasionally.

I opened one of my eyes again, making sure to clear it of anything blocking my sight, and looked up at John, seeming like he was ready to fall asleep.

"John," I purred, trying to grab his attention.

His eyes looked back into mine, sleepily, but it was better than nothing.

"What time is it?" I asked, raising my head from the calming coolness and setting my chin against it. John lifted his wrist up to glance at his watch.

"Seven twenty-three, my dear sir." He drawled in a posh English accent.

I moaned and rolled my head off the toilet to set it in John's lap, fidgeting out of my sitting position so the tips of my toes rested were the tub met the floor.

John brought his hand down from the lid, slid his glasses off, and then rested the both of his hands on the smooth tile floor, leaning forward to hover over me.

"George 'n Ringo'll be up soon," I breathed as John pressed his lips to mine very lightly, almost as if they were nonexistent. He trailed his hands downwards to mine, and then pulled them up to my ribcage with his.

"'ll lock the door if ya want." He whispered as his lips gently caressed my mouth, apparently not caring that he was probably inheriting my sickness or that I tasted like vomit. If he knew, well, he wasn't complaining.

It was strange, kissing upside-down. I'd never done it before. But I'd never kissed a man like this either, so why should I know how this works? This was all so new. I don't know if I should give into the want of lifting my hands up to knot them in John's hair, or if I even could. Wouldn't stop me from trying.

I cautiously unwound my fingers from John's, running my hands up his arms, his shoulders, neck, jaw, until I found his thick hair.

Suddenly, my nose started to itch a little, so I wrinkled it in hope it'd go away. Though it didn't. So I proceeded to do what might be the most embarrassing thing I've ever done.

I sneezed. And I wasn't embarrassed because I sneezed, oh no, because I knew John would tease me about it. Mike always used to, saying I sounded like a newborn kitten, or even worse, that I sounded like a girl.

I kept my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see the mocking smirk I knew John would be wearing. Luckily it wasn't one of those big, messy sneezes. Just one of my stupid little cat sneezes.

I strained to hear something from John, anything at all. I was still tensed, my hands gripping his hair and my cheeks burning. His lips parted from my apprehensive ones, his hooked nose still pressing against mine.

A gentle chuckle vibrated through his throat, "Anyone ever told you-"

"Yes."

I opened my eyes to glare up at him, making it clear it was a delicate subject.

He eyed me suspiciously then kissed my red nose. "Anyone ever told you, ya got a cute sneeze?" He mumbled sweetly, clapping me on the cheek lightly before standing, being careful of my head and prying my hands from his hair.

He looked down at me, his hands in the pockets of his red pants. "You're such a queer. Worryin' about the way ya sneeze. Guess you never figured someone'd like it, eh?"

I flipped over so my sloshing stomach lightly touched the freezing tile floor, laying my arms under my throat, setting my chin on them.

"Well, you're not exactly normal are ya? So I suppose ya don't count." I smirked.

He frowned, exaggerated sadness in his eyes. "Me mum always told me I was _special_."

I chuckled, "Piss off."

He bent down to kiss the top of my head, straightened, and turned towards the door.

"Now 'urry up and get that shit outta you, we're goin' out as soon as George an' Rings wake up."

* * *

Hi again!

I was on hiatus on my other story, so I used my break to write some fluffy humor. It seems all I've been submitting is angst! So I figured you guys needed a break.

Hope you like it. Review please!

-Jamie


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